See It, Feel It, Hear It, Be It

Sometimes you can taste it, but use your judgment.

Last Saturday night, I saw Dessa with The Minnesota Orchestra. Thanks to a brilliant, on-top-of-her-game friend, I saw her from the second row. I had seen Dessa in person before: with Doomtree when they played a show with my brother’s band several years ago, and speaking on a panel about storytelling at NerdCon 2018. I think she is brilliant and charismatic and articulate and dynamic and… well. You get the idea. The concert on Saturday was on an entirely different level. Never mind that her backup vocalists/collaborators are incredibly talented, never mind that she was backed by the orchestra, never mind that the monologues she shared between pieces were funny and revelatory in their thought-provoking-ness… Dessa herself has power. The way she sets herself before a song begins gave me goosebumps. I found tears* forming in my eyes from the vulnerability and electricity of her performance. Even though my friend and I (and others) had trouble hearing the lyrics of the songs — Orchestra Hall is built for instrumental, not vocal, music — I still came away with the feeling that I had been fundamentally changed. Such is the power of live performance.

*Spoiler alert: my tears are a theme.

I was in my first play when I was 7 years old. I had seen my mom and her friends in a couple of shows put on by our wonderful local community theater, and I thought it looked like something I could do. Turns out I was right. By the time our production of Carousel finished it’s six show run, I knew I wanted to perform for an audience as much as humanly possible. At strike when, after the final show, all the actors and crew help to take down the set, my mom found me backstage sobbing. The most fun I’d ever had in my life was over and I was devastated. I remember Norman — the dancer I crushed on during the entire production, who was in his 20s and definitely gay — squatting down next to me and saying, “Oh, are you going to miss us?” Yes, Norman. If by “us” you mean the hundreds of people clapping for me while I was in the spotlight.

The first professional theater I saw was 42nd Street at Chanhassen Dinner Theater. I think I was 12 (I asked my mom and received the text equivalent of a blank look), and by that time had seen a ton of community theater productions (and been in a few as well). While I was excited to see my first *real* show, I was not prepared for the effect it would have on me. Please believe me when I tell you that 42nd Street is not a particularly deep show. It’s what is referred to as a “jukebox show,” and is known for its flashy musical numbers, not emotional pathos. Regardless, I started crying as soon as we got in the car. I didn’t cry itty bitty tears either — these were great, wracking sobs. Alarmed, my mom tried to figure out the nature of my weeping; what emerged was a desperate longing to be one of those professional actors, mixed with the psychological effect of live performance.

I love movies. I love television. I have been deeply moved by both of these mediums, sometimes in life-changing ways. However, these pieces of art are complete long before we see them. Any act of creation that went into a film or a series is over by the time they reach us, and so we are not a part of the final product. The actors don’t pause when you laugh so that we won’t miss the next line. We don’t sit next to total strangers and gasp together. The actors don’t know that you, in the privacy of your own home, have leapt to your feet, clapping as tears roll down your face. The relationship between the creators and the audience is missing — severed.

A few years ago, my husband and I took the kids to Massachusetts on a family vacation. After 5 days at a cottage on Cape Cod, we all descended on Boston, determined to walk the entire Freedom Trail. It was lunchtime when we reached Faneuil Hall, and I was sent in to find us all some food. When I emerged with my arms full of French Fries, a large crowd had gathered to watch a street performer beginning her act. I scanned the uneven circle of 100+ people, searching for my family. Finally spotting the kids — directly across from me — I wondered where the heck my husband had gone. Then I realized he was in the center of the circle. With the street performer. Accepting the machetes she asked him to hold. As she cracked jokes and exchanged teasing banter with my extroverted introvert of a husband, tears came to my eyes. We were seeing a show that nobody had ever seen before — because my husband had not been there before.

My daughter’s main school activity — and a major part of her identity currently — is marching band. Our local marching band is quite something — the only band in rural northern Minnesota who competes with (and regularly triumphs over) bands from much larger metro schools. For the past three years (this year will be our last as she is a senior… but hey let’s not go there yet) we have traveled the state, watching our daughter perform an incredible show on various football fields. Part musical-and-movement performance, part athletic feat, each performance feels new and thrilling. As the announcer calls our band to the field, welcoming our drum majors and inviting them to take the field in competition, the Grand Rapid Marching Band parents, families, and spectators take our cue, “ROCK THE HOUSE!” we all yell, thereby sending our kids out with all of our energy and support echoing behind them. I bet you think it makes me cry. You are correct.

I try to give my 4th grade students as many opportunities as possible to both see live performance and to perform themselves. It is amazing to watch kids’ minds broaden right in front of me, gaining curiosity and confidence as they go. Art is food for the mind, and for the soul. Creation is a volatile and chaotic process, and it connects the ones who participate.

It’s all enough to make a grown woman weep.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie